by Dan Davis
“What happened?” She coughed and grasped me, her fingers like iron.
I was relieved she did not remember the blow that had felled her. Recalling one death is bad enough. Near to us across the courtyard, Swein and Marian called for my help.
“Recover your strength,” I urged Eva. “I must see to Anselm.”
A pair of Wealden archers rolled the dead horse off Anselm’s body and dragged him out from under it. They called me over, weeping in desperation.
“Please save him,” Marian said, wiping her tears and many others pleaded for him, also.
The young squire struggled for breath through his crushed chest. But before he took his last breath, I trickled my blood into his mouth.
Like Swein, Anselm did not want it and he squeezed his lips shut.
“This will heal you,” I said to him. “It will not change you into one of them.”
Sadly, I was not entirely correct about that. I was giving out my blood left and right, thinking simply to save my friends and sworn men. But I had no thought of the consequences that ingesting my blood might have. A seemingly permanent side effect that I did not discover until later.
But in the courtyard that day, Anselm recovered from his grievous wounds instead of succumbing to them.
Everyone recovered but poor Jocelyn. I would have his body taken back to Ashbury to be buried. He would have made a good lord, I think and a good husband. But it was not to be.
While the Wealden archers under Swein’s command hunted down the surviving sons of Eden, I found myself a new sword, a fresh horse and began the hunt for William de Ferrers.
The Lord of Eden had fled while Little John had attacked. Most of William’s men were tracked and killed by Swein’s remaining archers within the first day but William had slithered away into the wood like a worm. The Wealden archers tracked his trail too but he had melted into Sherwood.
Still, I followed. I searched. I scoured the wood and the hills. I kicked my way through barns and outbuildings. We searched the fens and marshes of the east. Some archers I sent south, others west while I went north to the Humber. After two weeks I had to admit that I had failed once more.
William was truly gone.
Chapter Sixteen – Cast Out
“We chased him for days. I sent men in every direction. Your son, Anselm, was of great help as he can read the signs and tracks of men very well. I exhausted a number of horses chasing word of him. God bless those Wealden archers and the rest of their efforts. But every trail led nowhere. Then, many days after the scouring of Eden, there was a series of bloody murders in Grimsby. There was no doubt who had done them, as the bodies were rent at the neck and a couple of women went missing. By the time I arrived there, William was gone. Some said they recognised my description of William in a man who had been seen in the town but no one knew what ship he had boarded. So I fear it is beyond doubt that he has fled the country by now,” I said. “From Grimsby, he could have taken any number of ships into the North Sea. He could be in France, Frisia or Denmark and from there he can go anywhere in Christendom. And beyond.”
“That is a terrible shame,” the Regent of England, William the Marshal said to me. “After all that you went through, to lose him at the last moment. A terrible shame. But you must not blame yourself, Richard. That man is a snake and a coward and he crawls upon his belly back to some hole instead of dying like a man. No, do not blame yourself.”
It was the end of September 1217 and two months since we had destroyed Eden. We sat together, alone, in a small day room of the royal castle of Dover. The chamber and the castle belonged to King Henry. But since the king was yet a small boy, he was not in attendance. We sat by a narrow window overlooking the sea. Outside, the gulls cried their endless cries, wheeling and battling through the sky. The cold wind blowing through the window tasted of salt spray and reminded me of the battle I had fought outside. There were few remains of the ships I had burnt but still there were charred timbers here and there on the shingle. It felt good to remember fighting with Jocelyn at my side.
“I will find him,” I said. “I have sworn it so many times that it may sound meaningless but I will find him, my lord and I will ensure he pays for his countless crimes.” My shame at allowing him to escape was almost overwhelming. If only I had known then how long it would take for me to fulfil my oath.
“Of course,” the Regent, William Marshal said, nodding to emphasise his sincerity. “Well done to you, nevertheless. You scoured him out of Sherwood. But, the Archbishop of York’s tragic death at his hands leaves the kingdom with a chance to heal the wounds caused by the past few years.”
The Marshal looked at me carefully, judging whether I had killed the archbishop, as I had agreed to do. William had killed him but I was willing to take the credit if it meant gaining a few more of the Marshal’s favours. I had family and friends who had to be rewarded for their loyalty.
“I am glad to hear it and I sincerely hope that with his death, you can bring peace to the kingdom,” I said to the Regent. “The whole kingdom, that is, including the men of the king’s forests.”
“Good God, not you, too,” he said, scowling. “My son has been nagging me about the king’s forests without let up. Penalties too harsh and rights not granted and officials corrupted. What have you done to him, infesting him with this absurd concern for the welfare of the residents of the forests?”
“I care nothing for those residents,” I said, which was not at all true. “But you should know, my lord, how close to disorder the forests are. The penalties for the smallest of crimes—”
“Yes, yes,” the Regent said, waving his hand at me. A tiny gesture but full of his almost total authority. “I have heard it all a dozen times, from Anselm and from a score of other men. Do not fret, we will issue a charter to remake some of the laws. Enough to keep the common men quiet and happy. And your friend Roger de Lacy will retire to his estates and keep out of everyone’s business for the rest of his life if he knows what is good for him. I hear his wounds were so grave that he will likely be bedridden until the end of his days, which is probably what he deserves. I have given the post of Sheriff of Nottinghamshire to Geoffrey of Monmouth. A noble lad, if somewhat arrogant. My hope is that a position of genuine authority will be the making of him. The chief bailiff is Sir Guy of Gisbourne, who has agreed to remain. It will be beneficial for Geoffrey to have an experienced man who knows the land and the people.”
“That is good,” I said but of course, I did not mean it. Geoffrey was a petty, vile little tyrant and I felt sorry for the common people of that fine country. “When does the French fleet sail?” I asked. “They look ready to go.”
The Marshal’s voice, always steady, rose in anger as he spoke. “They bloody better well sail tomorrow or I shall burn the lot of them. Louis, Prince of France has sailed already, tail between his royal legs.” William Marshal allowed himself a small smile. He looked old, thinner even than the last time I had seen him, but still he had a core of steel. “Had to pay the little shit ten thousand marks to get him to sign the treaty saying he had never been the king of England.”
“Ten thousand marks,” I said, whistling.
“I know,” the Marshal said, grimacing. “But it was worth the price to be sure he can mount no objections and will not pursue any claim to Henry’s throne. Not to the Pope or to his father or anyone. Henry will be the king of England. And none shall challenge him.”
“I am sure that with you to guide him,” I said, “Henry will make a fine king.”
He waved that way as flattery. “If you would stay in England,” William the Marshal said. “I would find a duty for you. Not simply instructing the king with sword and lance but with a proper place in court. He is a bright young fellow but he is rather godly. Already, the priests gather and whisper soft, holy words into his ear. I admit, I am afraid that when I am gone they will have him building churches rather than castles and raising cathedrals over armies. The boy needs soldiers around him to ha
rden him into a man of action instead of a man of God.”
“You honour me, my lord. I wish you knew how much it meant to hear you offer me such a thing. But I must find William,” I said. “And cut out his heart.” My own heart ached that it was not so.
“I understand,” William Marshal said though he seemed a little irritated. Most men did not say no to the Marshal. “I am sure you will do him the justice due to him.”
“A thousand deaths are not enough for William de Ferrers,” I said, unable to keep the emotion from my voice.
“No, indeed,” the Marshal said, solemnly. “But one will do, will it not?”
We shared a cup of wine and I was shown the door.
“And I must thank you,” the Marshal said, grasping my shoulder before I left. His grip was like iron. “For leaving Ashbury to my son.”
“Anselm earned it,” I said. “And he will make a very fine lord and a good knight. It is not my place to say so but you should be proud of him.”
“Be sure that you never tell him this,” the Marshal said, lowering his voice. “But Anselm is my favourite.”
***
The Charter of the Forest was first issued by William Marshal in the young King Henry’s name on 6 November 1217 and again in 1225. Amongst the articles rolling back the extent of the afforested areas, limiting the powers of the foresters and verderers were declarations I was certain had come from Anselm’s discussions with his father, based on the injustices experienced by Swein.
There was an article granting that every free man can conduct his pigs through the king’s wood freely and without impediment. And if the pigs of any free man shall spend one night in the forest, he should not be so prosecuted that he loses anything of his own.
Another article removed the punishments of death or the loss of limb for anyone taking venison. Finally, an acknowledgement in law that the life of a common man was worth more than the price of a deer.
And, finally, there was a general pardon for any man who had been outlawed for a forest offence. The king commanded through the charter that they should be released from their outlawry without legal proceedings after swearing that they will not do wrong in the future in respect of the forest.
So, Swein would be a free man once more.
The Charter of the Forest was drafted as a companion document to the reissued, rewritten Articles of the Barons. To differentiate the lesser Charter of the Forest from the other, the document dealing with the relationship between the barons and the crown was referred to as the Great Charter or Magna Carta.
The Marshal died a few years later, after seeing that his work was finally done. He had guided England through the greatest crises it had ever known. He had secured the succession and surrounded Henry with fine men.
Anselm was the fifth son. What was remarkable was that he did inherit his father’s title in time. Every one of his elder brothers inherited the title in turn and then died without producing an heir. Poor Anselm himself died, aged forty-five and left no heirs of his own. The great estates of the Earl of Pembroke were divided amongst Anselm’s four sisters.
The extinction of the male line is remarkable. I often wondered just how far William de Ferrers had seduced the lords of England. William Marshal’s eldest son had been with the rebel barons before being welcomed back by his father. Was he one of the sons of Eden even then? That would explain why the young Marshal had freed me from the dungeon of Newark Castle. Had his Lord of Eden commanded him, so that I might run into Sherwood to be captured?
Perhaps the eldest of the brothers had brought his siblings over to Eden to be turned. Only Anselm remained beyond his grasp. And I had fed Anselm with my own blood, enough to bring him back to life. Had I saved the young man merely to condemn him to a life without the joy of children? Still, he died in his own bed with his dear wife at his side. Not a bad way to go.
But it was later when I understood these things clearly and by then it was already long past. We must accept what we cannot change, even if we were entirely at fault.
Despite the collapse of the Marshal family, King Henry ruled England for an astonishing fifty-six years. His reign was not necessarily a very successful or happy one. He fought his own wars against a new generation of rebel barons, including Richard Marshal. I was not in England for any of it, or else I would have happily slaughtered those selfish nobles. England would only be beaten into submission by Henry’s son, Edward Longshanks, the Hammer of the Scots who was crowned in 1274.
But back in late 1217, I said my final farewell to the Marshal in Dover. Then Eva and I rode for the Weald.
We made it just in time.
***
My dear Emma and William of Cassingham married on the steps of the parish church in Cassingham. Emma wore a loose dress so that her swollen belly did not show too much. But everyone there, including Cassingham’s priest, was already so in love with her that they felt nothing but joy for the husband and wife.
So many people came to celebrate their union, I was astonished, although I should not have been. Cassingham was by then a living hero to the Kentish folk. He had protected them from the predatory French and everyone wished him well. And Emma was the kind of person that decent people loved. They flocked around her, every face grinning and winking and wishing them well. That was a kind of love and joy that was beyond me by then and, truth be told, probably always had been.
After the short ceremony on the steps of the church, there was a great feast in the village. Swein and Marian had both travelled to the Weald with Eva and me, for the marriage and also so that Swein could accept his pardon and swear allegiance to the new king.
Swein and Marian would return north, to Sherwood, right after Emma’s marriage and get there in time for winter. That celebration was the last time I saw either of them. We stood in the centre of the village, drinking ale and eating with gusto.
“The Marshal has awarded you some fine land in Sherwood,” I said to Swein. “Now you have sworn allegiance to young King Henry, I suspect you will be returning there for good? Settling down?”
“Someone has to look after the good folk who live in the wood,” Marian said, a twinkle in her eye. “And that will be me and Robin.”
“Who in the name of God is Robin?” I asked Marian.
Swein rubbed the back of his neck and scuffed his shoes. “There was a man called Swein, up in Barnsdale where I’m from. He was a bit of a hero of mine. But Robert is my real name,” Swein said. “My dad and my friends always called me Robin.” He shrugged.
Marian looked at him with deep affection in her eyes. I remember thinking that it would be difficult for her to marry him, an outlaw commoner, but hoping that they would be happy in whatever way they could. Of course, they did marry. Who knows, perhaps they already had.
“You do not look like a Robert,” I said, looking up and down his lanky frame. “Or a Robin. A heron maybe. Or a stork.”
As it turned out, the man who once called himself Swein went back to Sherwood and that small band of Wealden archers went with him to take up their own lands they had been awarded by a grateful Crown. Sherwood had been badly depopulated by William’s activities and the decent farmland was crying out for quality men to work the land again.
I have no doubt that Swein – Robin — meant to be a good farmer and to live a dutiful life within the law. However, within a few years, he was an outlaw again. Not only that, he became the leader of the outlaws of Sherwood and they fought to keep the new Sheriff of Nottingham in check. Luckily, he had that core of Wealden archers who became Sherwood freemen, to help him.
Geoffrey of Monmouth would turn out to be a deeply unpleasant, spiteful character. Of course, once he saw her beauty, Geoffrey became infatuated with Marian and he abused his position as sheriff trying to take her for himself.
Robin’s love of disguises and stratagems came in handy over the years as he and his men looked to combat the corruption of the new sheriff and his men. Despite the sheriff’s best efforts, nothing could
separate Robin and Marian. He was another soul I had saved with my blood who never fathered a child. Despite that, I am happy that their life and adventures have grown into legend. Most of all I am well pleased that they found each other.
***
“It gives me joy beyond measure to see you smiling and big with child,” I said to Emma before I left England. “And I am so sorry that I could not protect Jocelyn. He would have been so proud of you.”
Two days after her wedding, we sat close together on a bench at the top table in her new home, a large country house with a good hall and many chambers off either end of it. The fires burned hot, driving out the moisture of autumn. The servants brought Emma a steady supply of warm wine and morsels to eat. It was clear they were devoted to her, as were the other wives and older women of the village who sat in the hall, working and gossiping and throwing smiles her way. I was glad she would have women around her once again, especially once she began her lying in before the birth.
“I know you are sorry about Jocelyn,” Emma said and reached up to rub her hand on my cheek just as she had done when she was a tiny girl, sitting in my lap in the Holy Land. “My heart breaks a hundred times a day when I think of him. I wish that he could share in my happiness. But he died a knight. You say he died saving Marian’s life? He dreamed of such a death, ever since he was a boy. A death like in the songs. But still, my heart breaks. I think he would have made Marian a good husband.”
I was not certain that the young lady would have taken Jocelyn even had he lived but I said no such thing to Emma and simply nodded.
“William the Marshal will see that Cassingham gets an annual payment every year for the rest of his life,” I said. “And he has granted you both land and the rights to cut and sell wood in London. You will both do very well and so will your children.”
“I swear that I do not mind you have left Ashbury to Anselm rather than to me,” Emma said, smiling. “Still, I wish you would stay in England. Let William go. Do not waste any more of your life chasing after him.”